


for one so small

by snsk



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Blowjobs, Boyfriends, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, and harry wasn't there?, in the sappiest way possible, so- you know how earlier in the week louis hurt his knee, well i fixed that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 15:25:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snsk/pseuds/snsk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's football, kitten," Louis says, smiling a bit over Harry's head. "'s not golf, y'know."</p><p>"They were - horrible," says Harry, like he's not in showbusiness, the cruelest kind of game, "and your knee - oh, Lou," and he pulls back, leans over Louis' legs and presses a slow, reverent kiss to his knee. </p><p>"I'm sorry," he tells it, and Louis kind of wants to high glide over the world with how much he stupidly adores this ridiculous, ridiculous boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for one so small

**Author's Note:**

> yeaaaah ok you probably know what happened but for those who dont here's what you missed on glee
> 
> louis had a football match earlier this week, he got tackled, injured and booed and harry wasn't there
> 
> here's my attempt at fixing that

Louis holds Harry close; like if he were to let go, Harry would shatter apart into a million pieces of glazed-bright glass, although Louis is the one who's supposed to be injured now. Harry has his arms around Louis and his face buried into Louis shoulder; he's breathing deep, and a bit fast.

Louis had tried to tell him he's okay. He tries again, now.

"Babe," he says. "Haz, it's - it's alright. I'm fine. Shit happens." And he is fine, actually; maybe he hadn't imagined the full force of their vitriol to be so overwhelming, had felt their mocking like a shock to his system, but they're doing this because they see him as a boybander, untalented and bored, and - well. He'll prove them wrong. That's what Louis does.

But Harry just keeps - breathing him in that way that means he's really kind of distressed, and Louis is getting worried.

"Haz? Kitten? You okay?"

He turns his head to give Harry a kiss that lands somewhere on the vicinity of his ear, and Harry honest-to-god snuffles. Louis pulls back to look at him.

"Oh, love," he says, because Harry's lovely eyes are red and his cheeks are wet and even his hair looks miserable, unquiffed today and drooping over his forehead. "What's wrong, love? Tell me, please."

He manages to gently maneuver himself and Harry into their hallway, at least, and closes the door behind them. He'd opened it, six minutes ago, to Harry pulling him in close, the good kind of suffocating.

"Down here, kitten," Louis says, and pulls Harry with him to the carpeted floor. Harry goes willingly, because when has he ever properly disobeyed Louis?

"I wasn't there," he says, as soon as he's settled in between Louis' legs, arms around Louis' neck, breathing in deep again like he's - scenting, or something. "I wanted to be-"

"Harry," Louis says, "babe, I told you to go, remember? And you apologized to me about sixty hundred times and I told you it was going t'be alright and look, not in a body bag, so-"

"They hurt you," Harry tells him, voice shaky, young, sixteen again and too-wrapped up in each other.

"It's football, kitten," Louis says, smiling a bit over Harry's head. "'s not golf, y'know."

"They were - horrible," says Harry, like he's not in showbusiness, the cruelest kind of game, "and your knee - oh, Lou," and he pulls back, leans over Louis' legs and presses a slow, reverent kiss to his knee. 

"I'm sorry," he tells it, and Louis kind of wants to high glide over the world with how much he stupidly adores this ridiculous, ridiculous boy.

"Totally forgiven," Louis assures him. 

Harry snuggles his face into Louis' neck-shoulder junction again, which is a thing he does a lot when he's upset, or missing him. For a while they sit on the soft-rough carpet of their hallway, breathing in tune with each other.

Harry's phone sounds. He reaches absently down to turn the ringer off, but whoever it is on the other line calls again, and a third time.

"Pick it up, babe," says Louis, petting at Harry's hair affectionately. "Could be important."

He can feel Harry pout into his skin. "Don't want to," he mumbles, "told them already I was taking today off."

Louis huffs amusedly. "To look after leg?" he asks, and Harry nods.

Louis smiles sort of wide and insane at the opposite wall, because god does he love Harry Styles, who took a day off from the opposite side of the world to come back and tend to his boyfriend's knee.

"At least see who it is, huh?" he tells Harry.

Harry reaches into his pocket blindly and passes the phone over to Louis, not moving his face. The screen flashes a girl's name Louis doesn't recognize, and there's no accompanying picture.

"Yeah, okay," says Louis, pressing Answer. "'lo?"

"Harry?" a female voice says, sounding American and far away. "Um, so hey, you're picking me up around eight, right?"

Louis sighs. "Scuse me," he says, then to Harry: "this lady wants to know if you're still picking her up around eight."

"No, I'm not," Harry says, sort of muffled and very decided.

"He says he's not, darling," Louis tells her. "Looks like you're flying solo tonight, awfully sorry."

And yeah, she might not know a thing, and yeah, it might be mean, but. This is Louis' boy, who has to be seen visiting parties all over the world with a different lovely lady hanging off his arm instead of his own boyfriend, who he texts at about eight, and ten, and eleven, and again at two the next morning: mostly, again and again, a drunk "miss ypu .x" Louis thinks he's sort of entitled to mean, there and again.

"Who's she, then, kitten?" 

"Executive's daughter," says Harry, finally raising his head. He looks better now, eyes brighter. "Lana or summat."

Louis smiles. "Laura, love o'mine," he says. 

"Yeah, that," says Harry. "'m gonna make you tea, Lou, and then I'm gonna look after you."

"You do that, baby," says Louis, getting to his feet and stretching. Harry yawns and presses a kiss to his temple, then stumbles off into the kitchen. Louis can hear the soft hiss of the kettle a few seconds later. 

He follows Harry in, but Harry shakes his head. 

"You gotta rest, Lou," he says, and then he's taking Louis' hand, thumb tracing a line down the palm, and leading him to the living room, to the sofa, which is sort of silly, like Louis is an invalid, or something.

Louis goes anyway, lets himself be snuggled deep into the cushions and lets the remote be tucked into his hand, lets a warm blanket be tucked over him and lets his boy patter away to finish making his tea.

If it were just for him, he's sure he'd put up more of a fuss, but this is for Harry, who needs it. A repeat of Game of Thrones is on; he watches a few bloody deaths before Harry comes back, carrying two mugs.

They haven't had a day like this in ages. It's either tour or recording or promo, and never enough time to fit in a day of just watching tv together with tea cradled in their palms, cuddled up and just reveling in the thereness of each other, just enough.

Harry seems to know what he's thinking, in that strange way they have which Niall swears is the weirdest shit he's ever seen. He gently lifts Louis' leg up onto the table and hands him his mug, and Louis drops his head on his shoulder as Harry drapes the blanket over his own legs. "Hi," Louis says, to his most favorite boy in the world as he settles in beside him. 

"Hi," Harry whispers back, then: "I'm sorry it took your injury for us to be able to do this," into Louis' hair, sort of quiet, sad a bit.

None of this is his fault. It is a bit theirs together, and a bit everyone else's and a bit the stars aligning being slightly off and a lot no-one's at all, but none of it is his boy's fault. 

"I am too," Louis tells him, and, "Stop apologising, or else."

"Okay," Harry says, and so they don't think about it, not now.

"God, this is depressing," Louis remarks at the screen. "Are the actors on strike or something, are they all mass-quitting? Because all the characters seem to be dead and gone before you can even blink."

"It's the author," says Harry, turning his face to smile into Louis' skin. "It's based on a book series."

"See, the fact that you know that," says Louis, "weirdo."

"It's Game of Thrones, Lou-" 

"What is this game they keep referring to, anyway?" enquires Louis. "No matter, that kingly dude and his scary mom are done for, let's switch."

He switches it and immediately laughs out loud. The Wanted Life is on.

"I've been wanting to watch this for ages!" Harry says excitedly, and he means it, he really does, is the thing. Louis shoots him a Look, which Harry ignores, staring fascinated at the tv like he's forgotten what band they are and what band he's in.

"God, but the poor sod's whipped," Louis says, pointing at Siva and his girlfriend, who's demanding a thing or the different thing, or that other thing. "Like you, Styles, pretty much. Does that make me Nareesha, oh god."

"'m not whipped," Harry says half-heartedly, because everybody and their dog knows it's true, he is. "You're whipped."

"Ooh, burn, kitten," Louis says, giggling, and Harry uses an elbow and Louis threatens him with getting up and running about to aggravate his knee.

And it's only later, when Harry falls asleep after four more episodes of an actually entertaining reality show by The Goddamned Wanted, curled up warm and half on Louis' shoulder, and Louis gently pries his empty mug from his hands and tries to thumb the jetlag away from the circles under his eyes, that he thinks about it again, and has to conclude: Yeah. He's totally whipped, too. 

He'll never live it down. 

 

When Harry wakes up, Louis' mum is at the kitchen counter talking to him.

They're speaking in quieter tones, so as not to wake Harry, but he stirs awake and blinks sleepily when she's been there about fifteen minutes, give or take.

"Hi, Jay," he says happily, and Louis' mom turns to him. 

"Hello, love," she says, and her face is soft. "When did you get in, then?"

"Nine," Harry yawns. His mouth opens wide like a cat's, and Louis wants to lick inside it, always wants to taste it.

"I thought the flight was earlier," frowns his mum.

"It got delayed a bit," Harry says. "It's okay, I'm here," and he smiles at her.

"You knew he was coming?" Louis asks. "What happened to the heads-up?"

"You would've asked him to stay," his mum says, shaking her head. "Also, yes, I knew, he hasn't stopped texting me since the match."

Something constricts in Louis' chest, at that. It constantly does, when Harry's around, but sometimes it overwhelms him, how much he wants to love this boy in every lifetime.

"He's ridiculous, that's why," Louis says, instead.

Harry tilts his head and grins small and soft, like he knows what Louis isn't saying.

His mum's smiling at him too, but she only says: "So I'm just dropping this off -" she gestures at the food, chicken soup and Chinese, "and I'll be on my way! Bye, darling," she says, kissing the top of his head and holding him close for a bit. "See you soon, before you head off, yeah?"

"'Course," says Louis, hugging her back maybe tighter than necessary but there're only them here, his mum and his boy. 

She leans over the back of the sofa to embrace Harry as well, and whispers something in his ear. Louis can see his smile from here, can see the way his eyes are bright and how he murmurs something back, too low for Louis to hear.

"I don't need to tell you to take care of him, sweetheart," his mum tells Harry, and she waves at them and is off.

"Hello," Harry says, coming over to Louis, "hello, hi, I said not to move." He wraps his arms around Louis from the back, and his limbs have grown long enough now that they span all of Louis' torso and Harry's hands can reach over to tuck themselves into Louis' sides.

Louis leans his head back into Harry's shoulder. "What secrets have you and m'mum been keeping from me, eh?"

"This and that," Harry says airily, and leans in to - not kiss Louis, just brush his nose gently against Louis', right and left, like the overgrown baby animal he is.

"Rude," Louis informs him. "So rude. I've taught you nothing about respect to your elders, it seems. Three years wasted! Kiss me."

Harry kisses him, and if Louis turns and winds his arms around Harry's neck and sighs happily like a Disney princess, then nobody knows except his overgrown baby animal. 

He kisses Louis once, twice, then gently, licking over his lower lip, pressing kisses to his mouth like it's fragile, but he doesn't kiss him deep and thorough, like Louis wants. It's been two weeks or so; sue Louis if he needs his boyfriend all over him. So he uses his tongue to part Harry's lips, insistent and demanding and Harry surrenders, kisses him back hard and perfect.

Louis breaks it when they're both beginning to breathe rather heavily, takes Harry's hand. "Come upstairs," he tells him.

Harry looks torn, lips flushed pink and breath still coming fast, but he says: "No."

"No?" repeats Louis. "What's gotten-" Harry doesn't refuse him, ever, unless he's pretending to be coy or one of them is sick or-

"Is this about my knee?" Louis asks. "Harry, Jesus-"

"You have to rest it, Lou," Harry says, adamant even as Louis knows he's as worked up as Louis is.

"Fuck rest," remarks Louis, "I want to fuck you."

Harry blushes at that, in that way he does like they haven't been doing this for two and a half years and he's got a mind even dirtier than Louis, and that's saying something.

"Or you could fuck me," Louis suggests.

Harry looks terribly torn now, face all scrunched up. "Louis," he says, "give it a couple of days, I wanna make sure it's healed, I need to look after it, we could hurt it-"

"I could blow you," Louis wheedles, and he's not sure when he progressed to bargaining, or when he'll move on to outright begging. This is disgraceful.

"No!" says Harry stubbornly. "No blowing me! That involves knees!"

"That's a first," Louis says, "'No blowing me.'" He contemplates their situation for a bit, thinks about manipulating Harry to get his own way, which he knows will work, whatever Harry says, because nope, he's never properly disobeyed Louis, but he's already semi-hard, and it's too much work, so. "You know what, kitten, your knees are fine. Suck me off."

Harry's eyes go darker at that, and he's nodding, and letting Louis lead him upstairs.

 

Not much later, Louis is lying on their bed with one hand curled in the sheets and the other stuffed in his mouth to keep from making extremely needy and embarrassing noises that signify the embarrassingly short time he can go without this, and Harry has his mouth on him and his cheeks hollowed out and his head bobbing because Louis is the one who fucking taught him how to suck dick like a pro, god, and when Louis looks down next he's got one hand on Louis' knee, gentle and keeping it into place, thumb stroking circles gently, and, well.

Louis' heart is about to swell to bursting point, which Louis would concentrate more on if his dick hadn't already taken that spot for now, and Harry pulls back, looking up, kisses the slit and swallows him down, taking more and more till Louis can feel the back of his throat, and yeah, that's all Louis needs to swing him wildly over the edge.

 

And later, when Louis has pulled Harry off, Harry gasping and biting at his shoulder, and they both sleep some more, curled into each other, and they're eating Chinese on their balcony, sun setting low and Louis at intervals stealing things from Harry's plate, Harry says: "I'm coming to your next game."

"Yeah?" Louis asks, because it'd been unconfirmed before, their questions being met with okay, we'll see and depends on how things go. And Louis feels lighter, at having the most uncoordinated cheerleader in the world by his side the next time. He feels sort of like he could face the apocalypse and live. He always does, with Harry's heart beating next to his.

"Yeah," Harry says. "You need me there." He smiles, sure. Lit up in evening sun, with his eyes squinted and his skin ignited, Louis thinks he looks maybe like his future.

He draws in a breath.

"Need's a bit of an exaggeration, babe," he says, grinning. "Would be okay with, maybe."

He deflects the fishball Harry flicks at him with his carton, and they end up having a mini Chinese food fight, which inevitably becomes a tickle session, which ends with Harry drawing back worriedly and asking Louis if he hit his knee.

"Kitten," Louis assures him, drawing his beautifully uncoordinated baby animal towards him, "I'm completely fine."

xx


End file.
